Mon kontan ou Ég elska þig
by gayle dayle bayle
Summary: Written for kaylabow on tumblr based off an awesome piece of her art that she made for aphrarepairweek2019, prompt: Language. In which Emil and Michelle learn a little bit about each other('s languages)


**I do not own Hetalia**

God, Emil really was horrible at this whole relationship thing, wasn't he. Not with Michelle right there, with her eyes shining brighter than the sun that she loved so much, and he smile that was warmer than the hottest summer day, Michelle who always knew what to say.

No! Emil shook his head. He needed to stop comparing himself to other people, even his therapist had said so. It wasn't healthy, and he knew it - _especially_ not if it was his own girlfriend he was comparing himself to. What had they said to do when that started happening…?

Right. First, be aware that it's happening. Then, use logic and reasoning to get around all of the comparisons and anxiety, even if you don't actually believe it.

Well. Step one done, and it was apparently the most important step. That was easier than he thought.

Now for step two, which was definitely easier said than done. It was so much easier to be mean to yourself than it was to be nice to yourself. Whoever decided that was a bastard, Emil thought.

Okay. Okay. First off, Emil knew that he was actually just fine at relationships. More than "just fine", actually, because Michelle had standards, capital "S" Standards, and if she'd deigned to ask him out then he was clearly more than meeting them.

Of course he couldn't just skate by on the assumption that he was doing a vague _something_ right. No, not couldn't. Wouldn't. Emil refused to do nothing for Michelle when she deserved so much more than that.

Hm. In retrospect, it all seemed a bit… grand. Like a dramatic monologue that sounds like it's building up to something extraordinary, but the reveal is something that seems commonplace.

The truth was, Michelle deserved… well, she deserved a lot - certainly more than Emil could ever give her. But Michelle - she also wanted very little. Neither of them saw much sense in physical tokens of affection, no gold or jewels or clothes.

Maybe it was because they were Nations.

Maybe they were just weird.

Michelle just needed the wind in her hair, warm sand beneath her feet, the sky at her back, the ocean stretched out before her, her family - someone to love her, and to be loved in turn.

Sand, sea, and sky - that was Seychelles, so radically different from Iceland, yet comforting and achingly familiar for who they were to each other.

Michelle was Seychelles, and Seychelles was it's people, and what was a people without a language?

…Emil was nervous, okay?

'_You shouldn't be_,' a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Norway told him. '_It'll be fine, you'll see.'_

Right. Yeah. It would be fine. More than fine.

It was fine, Emil reminded himself.

It was fine, even if France had laughed in his face when he'd asked if he knew Seychellois Creole. It hadn't been a _mean_ laugh, France - _Francis_ wouldn't do that, but it was a "aw-you're-cute but I don't want to admit that I can't help you" sort of laugh, an embarrassed sort of laugh, an "I'm-sorry-what" kind of laugh.

It was the laugh of a man who didn't know something he thought he should know.

It was fine. Even if Emil always forgot his words around Michelle, it would be fine.

It would be fine, because Michelle made him feel like everything would be perfect.

Sitting in Michelle's living room. Just. Sitting on the couch. Talking. Maybe they would watch a movie - they spent a lot of time like this.

Pictures adorned the walls, hung up with red string and nails and thin wooden frames. They'd done it themselves, the two of them - had made quite an afternoon of it.

Emil and Michelle on a bench, smiling. Michelle and Emil at the beach. Emil giving Michelle a piggy-back ride.

In all of them, Emil was looking at Michelle.

Even now, he couldn't take his eyes off of her. What could he say? He loved her.

Michelle was talking. She did that a lot. She'd always been into marine biology, but now she was _very_ focused on arctic and subarctic sea life. Emil could listen to her talk about what she liked for forever, if he was being honest. Watching her face light up, how animated she got… there wasn't a price he wouldn't pay to see her like this.

"Mon kontan ou…" he murmured without meaning to.

Michelle stopped mid-sentence. Emil felt his face heat up. "What?" she asked.

"I said, uh, I said…" Emil stammered. Oh god. Oh god, he'd fucked up, he'd said something wrong, oh god oh fuck oh no -

"Mon kontan ou," he said again, firmer this time around. There was no use lying; Michelle had heard him the first time, she just hadn't processed it. Besides, he would just feel bad, and lying wasn't a habit he wanted to get into.

Her face _lit up_, brighter than he had ever seen it before. "Oh!"

For once, it seemed to be _her_ at a loss for words.

"Ég elska þig!" she said, ecstatic that Emil had learned her language - not France's, with which it had its roots and was similar but oh so different, and not England's, which they both already knew for "diplomatic purposes", but had learnt _hers_, for no other reason that to show her that he would.

Emil was touched that she would do the same for him.

Hands entwined, they talked to rest of the day, and then through the night.

Emil didn't know what the next day would bring, but he did know one thing: so long as he had Michelle by his side, he could face it. _They_ could face it - together.

**A/N: written for the wonderful kaylabow on tumblr, inspired by an amazing piece of art she made which you can find at (delete the spaces) ** kaylabow . tumblr post/185356868622/ aph-rare-pair-week-day-2-language-theyre


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